


Terrible Year

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Lucifer, Fluff, M/M, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s the minuscule details such as this that makes Sam deliriously believe Lucifer is real..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Year

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _"No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you **terrible year**." - Walt Whitman_   
>  **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

When Sam opens his eyes, his first sensation is of an aged tang in his mouth, sucking on his tongue to rid and understand the taste all at once. He tastes pomegranates and blood from the previous night, curtains closed shut and fingers groping in the dark to read braille off teethmarks and welts. There’s slivers of light streaming through the cracks of the curtains, casting the room half in light. It’s warm against Sam’s face despite the unearthly chill his body is consumed in, Lucifer twined around him and being the sole cause of the permanent goosebumps on his skin. 

Sam shifts on the bed, bumping knees with his neighbor. It’s cold but Lucifer is wrapped around him tightly, limbs tangled and head shoved in the space between the underside of his jaw and shoulder. It was a surprising discovery to find that Lucifer is a clingy sleeper despite the detachment Lucifer would engage in when comfort is offered to him. He’d reel back and bare his teeth, defensive and perceiving it as a coming threat when the touch is too much. Only brief and light touches can keep Lucifer compliant and comfortable. Sam thinks it must be tiring craving comfort but inevitably unable to accept it. Yet when his body grows tired, Lucifer will curl around him, the front locks of his hair grown sweaty from the meet and greet of warm flesh against a frozen entity. 

It’s the minuscule details such as this that makes Sam deliriously believe Lucifer is real. 

There’s half a torso draping across his and the press of fingers into his skin. While the Devil will often explain how much he needs Sam, the meaning of the words are not given definition until the archangel falls asleep. It makes Sam feel _needed_ less in a physical way and more on an emotional plane, which is a rather hilarious concept when he explains it during group therapy. Yet with their limbs twined with the other and the sensation of cold air sparsely hitting the curvature of his neck, there is need and reality. 

The hunter moves his limbs, the mattress giving a hushed groan that’s muffled by thick padding and fibers. Despite his admirable attempt to untangle himself from the archangel without rousing him, teeth are soon nipping and pulling at the skin on Sam’s throat. 

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles out, voice thick with sleep, ”Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The being beside him pushes his leg further between Sam’s, knee pressing into the brunette’s thigh where it’s warm from contact with the bed. “Sam, you know I don’t sleep,” the blond reminds, eyes still closed and teeth marking skin between words and the silence shared between them. Possessive creature the Devil is, having a strict ritual that requires the marking of skin and whispering Enochian promises into his navel until Sam’s squirming and laughing breathlessly. Sam cannot understand the words are nonsensical descriptions of the anatomy of the universe and the precision of each star in the sky, something he’s read in worn text and translated under the grueling time mark of a month. He can’t remember that he’s supplying the dialogue, glassy-eyed and imagining a truce between Devil and vessel that involves lazy kisses and gentle declarations of affection. 

Dean has grown more worried over the past weeks, pleading for Sam to create distance with this “hallucination.” 

_I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I think the whole having Satan in you and not having him in you anymore is doing something funky to your head. Freakin’ Grace withdrawals or something. Just...man, just keep your distance from it._ Dean would heave out and Sam would mumble and nod in agreement for his brother’s satisfaction. Perhaps there is something from the Cage reaching out and whispering soliloquies and love poems into his fevered brain. It’s a crushing wave of relief to be given love in this form in the aftermath of the horror in his life.

“What time is it?” the hunter asks, feeling Lucifer move his head so the side of his face can become buried in the pillow. A finger reaches out to Sam, brushing the crust around Sam’s eyes off.

“Almost nine,” comes the reply, Sam’s eyes closed and making a pleased sound in the base of his throat as he’s being groomed. Fingers are soon combing his hair and Sam basks in the gentle attention. Sam can fall asleep like this, listening to the sound of his own breathing as the pads of frigid fingers run across his scalp.

Than he’s parting once more, rolling on his back and pandiculating. Sam watches the disheveled and bare body twisted in the sheets sink further into the bed and wiggle his toes under the sheets. Sam can see a bruise in the shape of his thumb on Lucifer’s shoulder, where it has been gripped and squeezed tight the night before.

Sam recalls vividly the way Lucifer’s nearly flat on the bed, exposing his bare back that is nicked and marked with scars left from Sam. Only his hips remaining apart from the bed, sticking up and backside invitingly presented to Sam. Remembers the way he crawled across the bed so he can shove his mouth into Lucifer’s, sheets scraping his cheek as he licks the inside of the archangel’s mouth. When the angel presents himself in coy positions, it’s difficult not to be greedy and hungry. That dangerous curve created by the archangel’s back in that position, Sam shifting about on the bed so he could lean down and drag his tongue across the rise and fall of his spine. His skin tastes of mint and cinnamon, singing and clawing at his taste buds. He’s hopelessly attached to Lucifer’s back. Attached yet...searching.

Often the image of Lucifer’s back changes from time to time, Sam yet to have set on the one he thinks is true. Sam has never seen Lucifer’s back sans clothing. The only thing he could make accurate is the top vertebras of the archangel’s back where you could see it visibly protrude through the archangel’s gray clothing years and years ago. Sam doesn’t know if the dimples on Lucifer’s lower back is factual or softness of his sides are accurate, his imagination filling in the holes before him.

He thinks they’d be soft, enough for his fingers needing to press and dig into skin to hold him in place. Soft and disarming. 

Sam feels a familiar heat stir in his gut at the memory of finally pushing himself into the archangel, his hips moving with an air of slow relish, enjoying the gradual push in and out as muscles begin to tremble into relaxed states. The way the archangel sighs, long and wistful from underneath him. The way they turn into his name being moaned out between drags of breath that’s unneeded. How he can make the Devil keen and claw at the sheets, Sam trembling violently in the aftermath of his peak. 

Each and every morning, Sam wakes up that familiar blond image. Steady and constant, not dying quickly after due to this heavy curse that sits under the pads of his fingers: everything he touches meets their end. 

So Sam smiles at the sleepy image of Lucifer who is gazing at him through hooded lids. 

They lay on the bed, a foot pressing into the other’s, fingers occasionally chasing the other between their bodies to curl and intertwine. A nonsensical hum fills the air and Sam knows it’s coming from the body beside him. There are days where Lucifer would sing him to sleep, a lullaby to his battered brain. He sings in combinations of trembling growls, falsetto and emotional pulls of notes from vocal cords. Cool fingers will curl around his hair, words a melodic drawl in his ear in a language he can barely grasp, only ceasing from existence when his eyes close. He tells him he’ll never let him go. 

“What ‘r you thinkin’ of?” Sam yawns out, feeling an icy finger running across his lower lip. Sam kisses the finger when he’s done yawning, smiling into the cold index finger. 

“You.”

Sam grins, “Me too.” 

The archangel chuckles, finger dropping down to Sam’s chin, “You’re thinking of yourself? And they call me prideful.” Sam opens his mouth to protest, whining out in playful distress at Lucifer’s response. It’s never easy to distinguish what’s real and what’s not. Their minds were once melded into the other. Hard drives melting until they’re one heap of plastic and kryatbytes of information, experiences shared and words touching each other’s taste buds. 

Lucifer speaks with fluency of his solid self and Sam wonders if down in the Cage there is an image of him that visits Lucifer. 

A knock fills the room, Sam the first to jolt to attention, sitting up immediately. The door opens carefully, revealing a nurse with a tray. Sam doesn’t need to lift his head up to peer at it to know it’s his medicine for the day. His stomach begins to constrict, forcing itself into a complicated knot as the nurse greets him.

Sam stares in dread at the two pills sitting in the plastic cup offered to him, brightly colored and motionless in its chambers. The hunter drags his eyes across the room to stare at Lucifer, silent and working his jaw. Antipsychotics were the bane of his health in this facility and no matter how many he took, the worst would come greet him with a maniacal grin and belittling soliloquies dedicated to him.

_I will never let you go._

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Lucifer apologizes and the Winchester nods, licking his lips as he picked the cup up. Tipping the cup into his mouth, he grabbed the offered cup of water and finished it. The nurse sits with him to ensure he doesn’t attempt to throw up the pills, only leaving when an hour passes. It takes forty minutes to kick in and forty-eight minutes or so for the effects to reach their full potential. His limbs feel heavy and it’s disturbing to be aware of the way his ribs expand in his chest when he breathes. 

Turning his head, a pair of blue meets his. The blond is lounging in the chair in the room, side leaning into the back and body half spilling out. Sam knows any minute the being in the chair will begin to pick at it’s own skin, giggling and pulling off the sewed fabric of flesh off as he bleeds on the floor. At the moment, a grin is plastered on the archangel’s lips as fingers tap a beat against the metal of the chair. 

“Little Jekyll and a whole lot of Hyde, eh, Sammy?”


End file.
